Love of Poetry

Happy National Poetry Month! It has been a week of poetry reading and writing and revelry. I hope you have been enjoying the increased awareness and poetic events in your local communities. Shout outs to Serena at for orchestrating this blog tour.

I used to get annoyed with people who said that they don’t like poetry, that poetry doesn’t make sense to them. I wondered how they saw the world and questioned their ability to appreciate beauty. Ok, fine, I still do that sometimes, but most of the time I realize it’s not my concern. There’s beauty in small moments like the fluttering of a baby’s eyelids as he wakes up, or the struggle of a monarch butterfly during its emergence, or the simple recognition of love in another person’s eyes. Poetry highlights these gems of life in language that speaks to my heart. For the love of poetry, enjoy this love sonnet by Pablo Neruda:

XVII (I do not love you…)
Pablo Neruda
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep

An editorial note by Leslie Pockell postulates that the love he speaks of in this poem is what he experienced with his third wife, Matilde Urrutia. “Something passionate and profound, but also easy and natural….” What speaks to me is the reality in a solid reality, words that aren’t inflated, words that are accurate, words that create an exact image. Sure, I’m a sucker for love poems, but I especially like ones that begin “I do not love you…”
What kind of poetry speaks to you? 


Instructional: April PAD – Day 8


No one tells you how it will come.
It may arrive in an envelope,
tattered from its travels
or severely stark and crisp,
and just like this,
it begins to change your life.

No one tells you how it will come.
Line after line of anticipation
till you read of their regrets to inform,
their approval or denial,
their pleasure in receiving
your correspondence.

No one tells you how it will come,
but come it will, and there you stand
staring at a tri-folded page
considering the age of your wait:
the one gone or the one to come–
incoming or outgoing patient.

No one tells you how it will come,
but it arrives with a prescription,
a list, and maladies to avoid:
inaction, complacency, fear.
No one tells you how it will come,
because no one knows how to prepare.

Check out for today’s challenge attempts. Leave comments on the ones you like 🙂

Tentative: April PAD – Day 3


The cauldron that is the midst

of the earth topples its contents,
everything molten makes a run
for the exit,
the tilted axis gets its turn at choosing
an outlet. Today’s mountain,
tomorrow’s mole hill.

Tonight’s volcanoes always begin
as something else,
pride in a pack of peaks,
protrusions against a pristine sky
until the tilt, the spill, the hiss
of ash strikes its featherweight blows
at today’s mountain, tomorrow’s mole hill.

The curtain that is the sunrise
will stain of dirty soot from a hidden place,
though it’s washed in a thousand Tuesdays
what’s beneath finds its way out–
a tentative arrival, attentive destruction
burning through today’s mountain,
tomorrow’s mole hill.

The heat beneath searches for relief
and though it flows like oil over skillet,
a cool breeze ignites its permanence.
Rock covered wasteland that once wore
icecaps in its majesty can find
redemption in dormant restoration:
today’s mountain, tomorrow’s foundation.

I literally got out of bed to complete today’s poem. Had a very busy day so I only checked in just now and was unable to read through many of the poems at Poetic Asides. I miss that part of the PAD Challenge, reading others’ attempts.

Has the past ever come back to haunt you in such a way it changes you in the present?